Stranded Pieces of Their Strength
by beachLEMON
Summary: [Glimpse 3 UPDATED] Hermione and Draco's romance and life after Hogwarts. Hermione's changed and where will her life with Draco lead after she falls in love with him? Random glimpses into their life. Random.
1. Glimpse 1: Executive Decisions

Disclaimer: For fortieth goddamn time, I'm not JK Rowling or her possessions. Christ! 

Rating: R

Characters: Draco/Hermione

Category: Angst; Romance

Summary: Glimpses of Draco and Hermione's life together, where they are and will be after Hogwarts, and the decisions they had to make and deal with after they fell in love. The Glimpses are in random order and won't be in consecutive order of the events. It'll be _random._

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(So sorry to Metropolitanrubbish who reviewed, but I had to take down the story because FF.net was being screwy and screwed up my chapters. Which means I lost your review!!)

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Glimpse 1: _Executive Decisions_

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She woke up to house elves shuffling about her bed, not the sun shining in her face. Forcing one eye open, she realized there was no way out of it; she'd have to get up. Today was too important of a day.

Sitting up on her more than extravagant mattress, she rubbed her eyes tiredly and ran a hand through her wild, chocolate curls. God, all the stress was getting to her; it was like she was the only one with a brain in this goddamn operation. Smiling slightly, she remember saying that to herself a while back—a pretty _long_ while back. That was so long ago and yet wasn't that long ago at all. It kind of seemed like both, now that she looked about her magnificent surroundings and noted how she never would have guessed _this _is where would take her.

It wasn't bad. God, that word had outgrown its meaning long ago for her. Good, bad, evil, light, dark, _right…_those were all games. It wasn't so much whose side anyone was on as where the opportunities and benefits lie. And she'd realized a long time that everything she'd thought once was for her, was a joke. It was a lie built on top thousands of others like it to make her feel like she fit in. And she wasn't _meant _to fit in. Now, she wouldn't take the 'fit in' route if she'd had a choice between that and choking on coal. Alright—bad example. 

Grinning as widely as she allowed herself to in the morning, she thanked the house elf—Lydia—mid-yawn while grasping the black, silk robes she was offered.

She could've charmed them on right away, but slowly stepped in front of her full-length mirror and examined herself. Same as yesterday, honey, it told her and she smiled.

Anyone else would've grimaced at her ability to smile amidst her surroundings—her life. But anyone else, who wasn't involved in her life, that is, didn't _understand _what they wanted…what they were capable of. No matter how her opinion had been swayed before, it wasn't the case now. 

Before her, she saw the reflection of someone with strength, someone with ability—with power and ambition. She liked her which was precisely why she _was _her. Her national anthem for quite some time now had been, 'I want it—I work it—I get it.' And that—that served well in the business she was in.

She put on her robe and primped her hair with another house elf helping her pick out her shoes. If she listened to her practicality, she'd tell the house elf that it wouldn't matter what shoes she would wear, the robe was so long and swishy that besides the very high slits at the sides, no one would ever see them. It was kind of modern—low cut, v-neck with extravagant sleeves and clingy material outlining her every curve. Nothing new.

"Miss Hermione…the meeting is being at ten minutes from now it," another house elf muttered in a shrill voice as he stuck his head through her bedroom door, opened just a crack.

Hermione's hands immediately froze atop her head where she'd been trying to decrease the frizz level, and she looked at the still-present house elf at the door. Giving him a pointed look, she didn't move her glance until he answered her gaze.

At her demanding posture, the house elf was compelled to roll his eyes and put his hands up in surrender.

"Alright, alright, I'll drop it," he said in an exasperated tone, crossing his arms over his chest irritably. "Damn, you broads always get worked up over the smallest things. Like talking in third person ever hurt anyone." He shook his head as Hermione sent him an amused glance. "Pow wow's in ten, toots." 

After he left, Hermione continued to battle her hair for another ten seconds or so before finally sighing as she gave up and pointed her wand at her, leaving it to look pretty much the same without the extra static she'd caused while trying to tame it with her bare hands.

She glanced at her watch and exhaled tiredly, realizing that she'd have to hurry if she wanted to avoid being penetrated with demanding glances for a solid five minutes. Exasperated, she took a generous gulp of pumpkin juice and pocketed some toast before taking one last precaution and glancing in the mirror for the last time.

"Be back later, Dina, save my breakfast, would you?"

The house elf just nodded, rolling her eyes at her mistresses everyday routine and wondered why she even _bothered _making her breakfast. She was always busy…more involved in this operation _he, _himself, was and that was an entertaining thought. Taking one of the grapes off Hermione's breakfast tray and munching on it carefully, she took a few moments before she picked up the tray and carried it down to the kitchens. It was always different with that one—with Hermione.

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Walking briskly down the stony hallway, she allowed a yawn before glancing at her wristwatch meaningfully.

"Damn," she muttered more irritably than anything. She realized she had a few more floors to walk before she made it to the meeting and that was always time-consuming. Damn, why the hell did this place have to be so damn big? 

She snorted. Wait—bad thought. It's size was good enough. No, she'd just have to master time management a little bit more effectively—perhaps wake up earlier than fifteen minutes before the meeting. At the thought, she almost laughed. No, that would be far too taxing on her beauty sleep. No, she'd just have to charm her hair earlier, escaping the hope that she could actually manage without the help of some serious, kick-ass magic.

Clicking her polished, black heels—the ones no one would even see, but perhaps hear—down the hall, she picked up the pace just a tad, enough to speed up her stroll but not to the point where she'd have to prevent tripping at every step with her damned shoes.

As she walked, she suddenly heard her clip against the marble floors double...as if there was some kind of fresh echo she hadn't heard before. She stopped—the echo stopped, clearly indicating that it wasn't anyone else's shoes in the hall to blame. She began walking again—and the echo joined in almost instantly. This wasn't what she needed this early in the morning.

"Stop being sneaky," she said, her voice sounding sharp and crisp in the empty air of the hallway, "you've lost that ability a long time ago. Pity, really."

She knew that would do it. Almost instantly, two arms wrapped around her waist possessively and an anonymous mouth attacked her neck, placing hot kisses on the bare skin the openings of her robe allowed. She stopped her walk for a moment, savoring his mouth and feel of him against her, almost like a morning ritual, and smiled, wondering where and what she would be without him. 

But as morning ritual would have, she pulled away like clockwork and enabled the déjà vu as she looked into his vibrant, intense oceanic eyes and said what she'd been saying every morning since forever:

"Brush your teeth, man, you've got coffee breath." It was said with a smile after it became a habit, both aware that he didn't even _drink _coffee half the time. But like clockwork, he'd retaliate with something she'd memorized as his morning retort as well:

"Don't drink coffee," he'd lie even he'd had a cup just a few minutes prior. Then he'd put on a pompous smirk—which she'd learned was like his trademark—and recite with all seriousness, "Gives me all kinds of risks on my health that I just don't need. We're going to rule the world someday...and I'm not going to croak, leaving the fortune to you because of some nancy boy cardiac failure." 

And she laughed—just like she did almost every morning—because it was ridiculous that he'd always come up with the same answer, like clockwork, that early in the morning with that much bullshit encrusted on it.

Grinning, she pressed her lips to his, savoring the taste of his 'coffee breath' and mainly just enjoying the spicy, distinctive smell that was just…_him._ As she pulled away, his eyes only spelled out love for her like he had for almost five years. If she could see her own, she'd be surprised if hers projected anything but that as well...seeing as she risked, gave up, and _gained_ everything for him..._because _of him.

Somehow catching a glimpse of his watch...or hers...her eyes widened a fraction more than she would have like them too and she realized that they were probably already at risk of being a half hour late, let alone dealing with the issue of even _getting _to the meeting.

"Mm...honey, come on, we have to—" she started, and tried to ignore the feel of his lips on hers as he silenced her with yet another kiss. God, why did he always do that? She didn't _always_ stupid shit that needed to kissed away. Sometime—_most _of the time—it was damn important! Pulling away, she tried again, fixing him with a, 'I'm so serious' stare. "We have to get to the meeting. It's already nine."

The pleading look on his face made her want to forget the meeting completely and enjoy the...more pleasurable aspects of life in their bedroom...but it wasn't happening; especially not today. Not that every meeting wasn't important.

"Come on, baby," she said, pulling him by his hand towards the first floor, "it's not so bad."

He pouted. "You know, there used to be a time when you'd agree with me about these dumbass meetings. You'd _agree_ that they were _dumb_," he pointed out, then added awkwardly, "...ass." 

She smiled, glad that they were at least walking towards the first floor while the mock whining continued. 

"Please, please, don't try to convince that you don't love this," she said motioning to all the mobile paintings and expensive glimpses of rooms through their windows that they passed, before finally motioning back to herself. "Surely you don't think it's _all_ dumbass."

He grinned. He loved this exchange in the morning. It was more of a reassurance that this was all real—that he had the girl of his dreams, and was working towards his ultimate goal in life _with _her while living extravangantly in the house that he'd known all his life. It was blissful.

"No," he finally agreed, wrapping an arm around her waist as they headed down stairs slower than they probably should have if they wanted to make the meeting, "it's not all dumbass."

She grinned in triamph. 

"Now that that's settled," she started, before crinkling her brow, "what the hell's today's meeting about? I mean, we had all this Hogsmeade business sorted out last week. Unless he wants it to be more thorough?"

He looked at her, grinning slightly at her unbeatable devotion to her work, then rubbed his eyes slowly as they descended their last set of stairs and found themselves on the first floor, heading towards The Hall.

"Hell if I know," he answered her wearily, and a bit irritably, "he's bloody crazy, if you ask me. Brilliant, at times, but crazy. He's overlooking the bigger details to accommodate his Master Plan." He looked over to the neutral brunnette next to him. "Or should I say, _your _Master Plan."

She shrugged her shoulders, muttering a spell softly under her breath and a folder instantly appeared full of crumpled and folded parchment, all of which he was sure were like that for a reason—had some folding organization system. Because never once did she ever lose her notes or important documents.

"Although I'm not objecting to giving credit where it's obviously due," she said, grinning slightly as she motioned to herself arrogantly, making him unconsciously proud, "his little details and special missions are making it all a little hard to put together. Every meeting, there's some little impossible detail that _has _to be done...which usually isn't all that urgent." She shook her head. "Sometime that man _astounds _me."

He grinned. "But you always get it done."

She stopped at the double doors and put her hand on the knob and looked at him with a teasing grin over her shoulder. "You're the sweetest almost-husband ever."

He raised an eyebrow at her, suppressing another grin at the risk of looking a little too jolly for his tastes, and watched his fiance open the left door to The Hall before she stepped in. He inhaled and rolled his eyes before stepping into The Hall himself, shutting the door behind him. Here we go again.

"Hermione...Draco...how thoughtful of you to join us," the head of the table acknowledge, causing the rest of the table's black-hooded occupants to turn their heads and stare at the late pair. "Punctuality really has no definition in your vocabulary after all, I presume." 

Hermione grinned, managing a sheepish expression although she certainly didn't mean it, as she passed all the hooded occupants on her way towards the head of the table. She took a seat to the right of the head, and Draco took a seat to the left. It was their usual place—no one dared challenge it. 

Draco, unlike Hermione, didn't smile in any apologetic manner, but raised an eyebrow and nodded at all the members in the room, he, too, realizing that everyone was in their traditional black hooded wear while he and Hermione were dressed in simple, formal attire.

"Sorry, sorry," Hermione's voice sounded, her tone light and breezy as if she was reciting a speech in a hurry, "you know how it is. Woke up, problems with the hair, pumpkin juice down the front of my robes." Her eyes glittered as she looked the head of the table straight in the eye...as far as she could, at least. He, too, was dressed in his black, hooded robe which only allowed his nose and mouse to protrude out of the ensemble.

He paused a beat before answering in his usual, booming voice—mostly targeted to reach all the 'little people' at the back of the room when he was talking to a large crowd.

"You're lying," he proclaimed in a sure voice, causing the rest of the table's occupants to gasp and squirm in discomfort. Hermione simply raised an eyebrow and sent the whoe table a, 'Please...you people have _got _to be kidding me,' look. Draco chuckled.

"Actually," she said in a cheery voice, "the pumpkin juice part is pretty much true. Only I didn't spill it down the front of my robes." The cloaked Head looked at her.

"Overslept again," Draco put in helpfully, his voice unmistakably bored at the turn this conversation was taking. He was, on the other hand, pretty amused when the entire table of members gasped at Hermione's little fib—and being caught. Hadn't they learned enough in the past three years?

The head of the table just turned his nose towards Hermione, making her guess that had his eyes been revealed to the room, he would have been looking at her, and shook his head.

"How you graduated at the top of your class with this kind of attendance, I'll never know," he said, shaking his head and causing the rest of the table to, once again, react as if they were one person, surprised at their boss's easygoing nature towards the young woman who was obviously disrespecting him.

She smiled and Draco shook his head. "Time turner," she said easily and shook her head blissfully at the memory. "Can't live without it—or get to class on time, more precisely."

All heads turned to the middle of table, even Draco's attention slowly winding in that direction, as one of the hooded members cleared his throat, wanting to get right to business. Spoilsport.

"My Lord, if you don't mind, I believe it's best we steer back to the original topic of Hogsmeade this weekend," the member proposed, slightly glaring at Hermione for daring to stray off topic.

The Head chuckled as he saw the glare sent towards Hermione by the annoyed member in the middle of the table. She didn't even look up from the parchments she'd taken out of the folder, but pointed in the exactly direction of the member's seat and muttered, "Don't even glare at me, Zabini. I let you borrow my broom last week after yours malfunctioned and starting hitting you in the ass every given moment, and you didn't have time to buy a new one." She finally looked in his direction with a raised eyebrow, satisfied when Zabini's face disappeared behind his black hood in embarassment.

"Erm...right..." his voice could be heard, nearly in audible, making the head of the table chuckle even more.

"He brings up a very good point, however," the Head began, amusement still evident in voice, but seriousness and ambition towards his Master Plan overcoming his senses a bit more. "Draco, has everything been arranged for this weekend's attack in Hogsmeade?" he asked, folding his aged fingers on the table in front of him. "Everything is set with Spensor and Watson?"

Draco raised an eyebrow at Hermione, which she returned, before he moved his glance back over to his prime conversationalist. 

"No, not exactly."

The mood in the room suddenly got dark. Draco didn't even bat an eyelash; this happened _every _meeting. Something always went wrong in his plans—moron.

"What do you _mean..._not exactly?" he asked in a deathly tone of voice. Draco shrugged, hardly intimidated by the Head as the rest of the members seemed to be—with the exception of Hermione.

"Well, Spensor's set," he explained airily, giving Hermione the queue, "but—"

"—But Watson's a spy," Hermione added in exactly the same careless tone as Draco. "Definitely not playing for out team, as luck may have it."

The Head suddenly paused in thought. "Watson...hm. Are you positive?"

Hermione chuckled.

"Oh, yeah." She looked over her notes, one parchment in particular which humoured her to no end. "When asked why he would want to help our..._cause_, he answered without batting a lid that he'd 'always wanted to accomplish something so great and be a part of something so grand and phenominal'." Hermione looked up from her notes and shook her head in sympathy for poor Watson.

Draco chuckled and, surprisingly, the rest of the table did as well.

"Haven't had one _those _ambitious kinds since Longbottom tried to convince us he's turned completely evil because he's bloody grandmother was too protective of him during his childhood," Draco added amusedly, smiling at Hermione across the table and receiving a feable grin back. She'd acknowledged the comment, and found in humorous, but it just didn't reach her eyes; and Draco noticed. He furrowed his brow a little, sending her a silent inquiring glance, but she already had her eyes turned down looking at her parchment, and he just sighed inaudibly. This wasn't the time and place.

"That's too bad," the Head commented softly, after the chuckling died down. "And here I thought I wouldn't have to deal with this crap anymore." He shook his head in annoyance. "And Watson bought the honorary cloak, too."

Hermione and Draco exchanged amused glances, secretly commenting that _this _was whom they were afraid of for nearly their entire school age. _Ha_.

"I'm sure he'll wear it in _good health _now," Hermione joked, her eyes twinkling slightly at her pun and the stabbing in her heart a little duller than it was yesterday with the realization of what would happen to Watson. "But this isn't all bad. This just means that we won't attack at Hogsmeade, with the lacking of point people on the project." She shrugged. "We could just...attack the next Quidditch game. Isn't it next month, or something?"

Draco nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Against Ireland, too. Should be a big turnout." He smiled slightly. "Should probably cancel that bet I put up against them."

Hermione shook her head in amazement and a few brave chuckles could be heard throughout the table, while the silent ones scolded the rest of them for their consecutive disrespect.

"Yeah, Quidditch game it is, then," Hermione confirmed, raising her eyebrows at the Head. "Those are always successful, remember? Lots of people, Bernie Botts venders, referees...We like to attack during Quidditch matches..."

The Head simply pursed his lips. "I always did enjoy reading about my efforts during those in the Daily Prophet..." he mused. 

"It's settle then," Hermione said, gathering her parchments and filing them back into her single folder. "I'll research the escape routes, we can block those once everyone is seated...and...Thompson, you make the list of hexes. You know, whom to hex with what, whom to injur, whom to kill, all that rot...Have fun with it. Goyle, get your cousins—they can blocks masses of people from getting out when all the screaming and panic turns up."

Nods of acknowledgement were sent toward Hermione as she listed off more things for people to take care of and Draco stared at her in amazement. He never would've figured that she would even agree with the cause, not to mention become the Head's right hand woman with him being the right hand man—of course.

And she was great at it; and she'd accomplished and overcame so much—with so much still ahead of her. And she was so strong. He couldn't help but wonder how he'd ever found her, trapped in that shell of red and gold Gryffindor. He used to think that she was doing this all for him—changing for him. But later, he found out how wrong he was...and how independent and capable she was. And how absolutely _amazing._

"And that wraps up the meeting...I think..." Hermione announced, looking to the Head for approval.

He just sat there for a moment, unmoving and still. Draco gave him a short nudge. "Hm—oh, yes. Thank you for attending, all."

Draco shook his head and took amusement in the rest of the members' surprise that _he _was thanking _them _for simply _attending _the mandatory meeting. 

Everyone stood, bowed shortly, Hermione and Draco bowing the least—surprisingly—and all headed towards the door, bowing once more in the doorway while the Head remained at the table. Again, Hermione and Draco bearly moved from their rigid postures to show their _respect_.

As the rest of the members shot ahead of them, quick to go about the tasks that Hermione had assigned them, the right-hand pair lagged behind and turned into a hallway, giving each other meaningful looks until they were sure they were alone.

Slowly, Draco ran a head through his hair and pointed to the direction they had come from.

"Any idea what the hell's going on with him?"

"Don't know," Hermione admitted, worriedly. Then she smiled. "But it leaves us with a more of a chance, don't you think?"

Draco smiled back at her ambition. 

"Patience, baby, patience," he cooed. She scowled at him, then reached up on her tip-toes and tilted her head to kiss his soft lips. 

They stayed there for a few moments, savoring the feel of each other, just like they frequently did every day of their lives, then began walking back to their joined quarters.

"Something's not right, though," Draco finally commented as they took a shortcut towards the third floor, arm wrapped around Hermione's waist. "Who ever heard of Voldemort ever falling asleep at one of his _own _meetings?"

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Okay, so that's Glimpse 1. Glimpse 2 will _not _pick up where this part left off. The Glimpses will be like chapters in random order, and they _will _eventually explain everything. It's okay—it won't be too confusing. I know what I'm doing. Anyway, it'll take you randomly through Draco and Hermione's experiences in their lives and how they got to be _here _ in this Glimpse and where they still will go.

I know this is also under the Angst category, and it's pretty cheery here, but they _are _both Death Eaters and the other Glimpses _will _be more angsty. This I can gurantee. 

And Review!


	2. Glimpse 2: The Heart She Never Had

Disclaimer: For fortieth goddamn time, I'm not JK Rowling or her possessions. Christ! 

Rating: R

Characters: Draco/Hermione

Category: Angst; Romance

Summary: Glimpses of Draco and Hermione's life together, where they are and will be after Hogwarts, and the decisions they had to make and deal with after they fell in love. The Glimpses are in random order and won't be in consecutive order of the events. It'll be _random._

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Glimpse 2: _The Heart She Never Had_

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It was dark. Definitely not pitch black—some torches were lit, but it was pretty easy for her to trip over her feet or the feet of a random chair. She sighed and muttered _lumos_ under her breath, instant relief settling over her when her wand lit up like a flashlight at the best possible moment. She covered it with her hand, trying not to wake anybody up and wondered if she should have even come.

It wasn't like he'd want to see her. He hated her...and for a while, she hated him. She supposed it was both their faults; after all, they never came running back to one another. Until it was too late, that is.

"Shit!" 

She aided the pain in her finger by bringing it instinctively to her mouth. The faint, coppery taste of blood reached her taste buds and she looked down, wondering exactly by what—or in a strange case whom—she was assaulted by. It was a syringe, oddly sitting with a couple of others, pointing outward. Seeing it—the syringe full of faint yellow liquid—made her forget all about her injured finger and sigh a very heavy, painful sigh.

God, it wasn't supposed to happen this way. And she knew she had no right to say that. By all means, anyone had the right to say that he was here because of her. _Why _she'd done it was a different story...but it was her fault. She was a traitor—a fucking liar without remorse and, strangely enough, _now_ remorse was getting to her. Uncontrollable guilt haunting her...and it was probably because he had ended in this place.

This _horrid_ place. Because of her.

Most people couldn't—_wouldn't_—and probably shouldn't ever bear such a burden. It was practically worse than killing someone with bare hands and having the blood stain their clothes.

She passed a small desk—probably a nurse's desk—and her wand just _happened_ to light up a small sign nailed to the side of the desk, brown and rusty but distinguishable with its meaning and words. Haunting—and _there_, telling her that she really was there and it wasn't one of a thousand nightmares she'd had about this place with him in it.

Only in her nightmares, he'd been tortured...painfully. Different syringes with different drugs and potions, causing him to go crazy, off the walls, more than he already had. His pained eyes would haunt her day after day, though she'd shut down that part of her emotional track. But at night, the scared, harmless, innocent eyes would come back and she'd be force to tell herself that _she_ was becoming fucking crazy: the torture never even happened!

But how did she know that?

This was her first time—ever—visiting him here. She'd seen snapshots, pictures taken by friends whom had wished to remain anonymous; they didn't even want to really keep in touch with her anymore. And they knew it was because of her, they were forced to go visit him in the white, uninviting rooms; but they still sent her pictures. Maybe it was because they wanted to remain civil people, seeing as how she really hadn't done anything to them..._yet_. But she really knew what it was about. They wanted her to see what she had done; wallow in the guilt and remorse and do something—_anything_—that could make it right and ease their pain about what happened to him. 

She knew the fact that it had been eating her inside out ever since she'd received the Muggle—not even moving—pictures of that scared, victim-like face wouldn't matter. It would matter if she formulated a plan to break him out of there, if she straightened out all of their lives and returned him to them and made their sun shine a little bit brighter. And after that heroic act was done, they'd want her to leave—disappear off the face of the Earth because they were disgusted with her and everything she'd worked for. 

And it killed her four thousand times a night, but she came anyway. She came even though the people she used to consider her friends would have no qualms about _accidentally_ killing her and blaming it on mother nature. Mostly, she came because those people weren't there—well, perhaps one was. And she knew she wasn't allowed there—she'd be jailed on the spot. But she snuck in, because she knew that before it all went down, before she helped hell overpower the sun, she had to see him at least once. Talk to him at least once. Hold his hand at least once—even if he was repulsed by the thought of having her in the same building as him.

The sign on the side of the desk burned itself on her brain even though she had passed it minutes ago. She was now turning down various aisles, trying to identify the colorful peacock quill by his bed that she'd seen in the pictures. That was the only way she knew she'd find him. If his hair was indistinguishable, and his features were hidden by the starched pillow, she'd see the peacock quill by his clone bed on the wooden night table which was given to him by their friends. No—_his _friends.

_Don't litter. Charm your trash into the orange bins at the end of the hall. Keep St. Mungo's clean._

She willed herself to ignore the lump in her throat and reasoned within herself that she could do this. She'd had the stones to fucking _put _him here—imprison him in a damn mental hospital. The least she could do was visit him, maybe talk to him—just _see_ him under the cloak of darkness.

She was sure the staff would be milling about, checking on their patients every thirty seconds, but that wasn't the case. She'd noticed one orderly at the end of the hall—by one of the orange trash bins—who seemed like they were learning how to fall asleep with their eyes open. That way, they could 'do their paperwork' and not care all at once.

The patients were also a bit more different that she had predicted. All of them—not just a few—but _all_ of them had sensed her presence, sensed her sneak by them with her dimly lit wand, nervous and unsure of exactly what to do. Some of them were muttering random words under their breath, others were simply staring at her until she passed them so far that their eyeballs wouldn't follow. One thing she was sure of—not one of them was asleep. And the orderly was.

She was about to turn down another aisle when she passed the orange trash bin, but something blue caught her eye. Blue. A peacock feather.

When she turned back around and approached the clone bed—looking very much the same in real life as it had in the picture—she simply stopped and stared at him.

He wasn't muttering anything or looking at her. To anyone else, he would've been mistaken for asleep; but she felt that he wasn't. His body was tense and his forehead was scrunched up; not relaxed. His whole body seemed to be trying very hard to project a 'Go Away' aura.

She knew he knew it was her.

Finally, she gathered enough courage to step up to his bed—just one step, but that did it. She knew that it was now or never. It wasn't like she had planned to never come back, but this was four thousand times harder than she'd imagined. Now that she was here, she'd no idea what to say. And the fact that he _knew_ she was there and was taking extra precautions to pretend like he was asleep so that she'd go away didn't exactly evoke the courage within her.

While she pondered, his movements on the bed escaped her attention. He was now facing her, eyes open and mouth closed shut; just staring. When she unconsciously moved her eyes back over to his bed, she noticed.

She noticed for the first time how..._sick _this picture was. He was staring back at her, white starched sheets bunched around his waist carelessly, revealing his now thin and frail chest, and arms restrained with two thick straps of leather binding. The leather was firmly bound to two large hooks on the stone floor, and besides that and the same hooks next to his legs where she presumed the bindings were, it would have looked like a regular hospital. As if he'd just been hurt in Quidditch, or he'd went up against one of his arch nemeses again and this time it got a little too rowdy in the duels which he was famous for. 

"Harry," she whispered desperately, quietly. She felt like she didn't even _deserve_ to utter his name, but did anyway to at least acknowledge that she came here for him. Her two sweaters and rain jacket seemed to sag on her, weighing her down forty thousands times less than her conscience was at that moment. "Hello, Harry."

 His facial expression didn't change at _all_. He seemed to not even have noticed that she'd said anything—just acknowledged her presence in front of his bed. 

She mouthed 'Harry' once more but lost the voice that seemed so real and there just a second ago. She figured that since her heart was ready any second and Harry still hadn't answered or realized that she'd said a thing, she would look around his...cubicle. It wasn't a room—it was like a general floor filled with separate cubicles where bound members of a family rested, a thick fog in their mind and a numbness around their protected heart.

Her heart sliced open a fraction more. Because this patient didn't have a foggy mind...he wasn't...didn't...he couldn't...it wasn't his...

A wooden picture frame outlined a moving snapshot of he and Ron smiling and chasing each other on their brooms, laughing and diving towards the ground only to pull back up into the free air at the last possible second when one would surely think they'd smash their heads in. Mrs. Weasley's worried right arm could be seen from the right side of the picture, waving around at them repeatedly, motioning for them to come down for dinner even though it was only a few hours past noon. She just wanted to keep them safe and with her—because they were both her sons.

She blinked back the tears that formed of their accord. What had she—

Another picture frame held a present by Dumbledore, she presumed. It was a picture of his parents—James and Lily holding hands beneath a tree by the lake at Hogwarts. She was sure it was Hogwarts. Lily's feet were in the water and James kept pointing towards the lake, telling her about the sea monster legendary at the school of wizardry, and she would keep withdrawing her bare legs from the swampy water, then put them back in. The hem of her yellow sundress was wet, but she didn't even notice as she looked into James' eyes and he graced with a charming smile.

A Quidditch team logo was posted onto the wall of Harry's cubicle, and some more Hogwarts memorabilia: a box of Bernie Botts', one of Fred and George's creations, Dumbledore's chocolate frog trading card with his picture very much there, a wallet-size of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley smiling and hugging one another, a Get Well card from Neville, Dean, and Seamus, and finally a picture of Harry himself during one of the Hogwarts Quidditch matches when he was reaching for the Snitch, right before he undoubtedly caught it.

She blinked. She wasn't surprised that there were no pictures of her on her wall. She was surprised that thought had even occurred; of _course_ he wouldn't have a fucking picture of _her_ up. Some more damned tears threatened to overflow or drowned her eyes—either way they announced their presence.

"Did you see the Get Well card?"

His voice cut through the hospital murmuring like a knife. His voice was even and clear, like he was just standing there, showing her around his room for the first time. But he never had his own room—not a real one. And now he had a cubicle at a psycho ward.

She turned her eyes to him sadly and blinked—keeping her eyes closed a little longer than one usually would.

"Yea—"

"Funny, isn't it?" he asked, not caring that she was trying to answer his question. Her quiet, sympathetic tone of voice was overrun by his clear, hard voice anyway. He tried to catch her eye, but the sickening smile that appeared on his face couldn't keep her gaze on his face. Instead, she looked at the hooks on the ground which bound him decisively to the bed. "Funny how they sent me a card to get better." His eyes started gleaming now and his uncalled-for grin had turned in a low, eerie laugh. "Am I going to get better? I don't know. The beds are pretty comfortable. The pillow supports my head and the nurse told me that she believed me—that I wasn't crazy for saying the things I say. But am I going to get better?"

Using all the will that had ever been in her existence, she _forced_ herself to meet his eyes. It wasn't pretty. The turmoil within him and within her clashed like fire and ice—both trying to overpower the other and they both knew his won. Now, she wished that she _could _look away as his look of pure hatred and defiance pierced her gaze, but her trained were trained on his and suddenly she couldn't will her body to move...or do anything.

"You didn't answer me," he inquired, his laugh long gone and his eyes starting fire by simply looking at her. "Am I going to get _better?_" The last word was almost screamed, but so much that the orderly at the end of the far hall was still doing the paperwork and she was still staring at him, tears there but not even willing to spill out anymore. She was frozen but grief, but on the receiving end of more guilt and reality.

Finally, he broke their eye contact and somehow set her free to move. He looked away, eye focused on the fluorescent lighting visible through the padded doors outside of the patients' ward. The lights he had memorized so well that he could describe in his sleep if he wished—but he didn't wish anymore. He barely was.

She, on the other hand, couldn't focus her eyes on anything. The tears came sporadically, drops here and dribbles there, leaking from her eyes and onto her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away with her mitten. Her nose swelled slightly and reddened quite a bit, her eyes swelling to a puffy size as well but she didn't realize it. She inhaled and exhaled, unaware of the tears that fell. It was all she could do from screaming out her apology to her former best friend so loudly that her lungs exploded and the last thing she saw before she died was the free, unbound, and lively body of Harry 'The Boy Who Lived' Potter.

She stood there for what seemed like thousands of decades, with centuries more, and he simply lied there with his eyes trained on the intolerable fluorescent lights he'd grown to know so well. Then, she gathered the last strength and will power she had, and focused her eyes back on the weary, tired, and frail form of Harry.

"Harry," she whispered, much like first time she saw him in the bed; his head remained turned towards the lights. "Harry, I didn't...I know what I did was..." She paused. She was making a fool of herself and of Harry. She needed to say something. "I came to see you...I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't go without seeing you, I..."

More tears descended down her salted cheeks and this time she was aware of the liquid assault, as well as the sob she tried to choke down. At the muffled sound of her crying, Harry turned his head back slowly to her shaking form and fixed his stony, emerald eyes upon her. As she tried to choke down more unnecessary grief, he simply stared and waited a beat. Then he clenched his fist madly, testing his restraints for the four billionth time since he first got strapped down.

"_Don't_," he warned, his voice so quiet that she wasn't sure he had even said anything. It got her attention though and she wiped more tears from her cheeks with her black mittens, only trying to dry her face. She shook her head in shame.

"I—I'm sorry, I just...I can't—"

"_Don't_," he began again in a deathly calm voice, but continued as though he didn't see her try to reply once more, "fucking come here to apologize. _Don't_ think you have _any_ right to say _shit_ to me, you goddamn bitch. And _don't_ think that _anything_ you say could change a sliver of a piece of my thoughts about you. To me you're nothing and never will be anything more than you are: a traitorous, cold-hearted, selfish, sadistic piece of _shit_."

Suddenly, she was frozen in her place again, tears streaming down her cheeks like gushing waterfalls, but this time she made no point to wipe them away at all. They just smeared her eyeliner and ran down her already glistening cheeks in gray puddles, running in angles down her slightly aged and weary face before dripping off her chin and landing on the while tile floor. 

Harry had turned to look at the lights again and she figured he was done. She didn't know if she'd set him off again if she managed to say anything, but decided that she _had_ to utter something—anything. She'd deserved _everything_ he'd said, but...

"Please, Harry...I _know _that it's horrible and, God, I didn't mean—"

The look in Harry's eyes suddenly told her that she shouldn't have said one word of that unfinished sentence. Not a _word_.

"You _know_ it's horrible?" he asked, his voice calm again, but the sickening grin appearing on his face once more. His voice held no humor, though. "You fucking _know_ it's horrible and you're telling me on behalf of God that you didn't mean it?" His eerie laugh overpowered his grin again, and for the first time since the beginning of her visit, she felt scared—threatened even, solely by the anger in Harry's eyes. "Your precious existence has _never_ experienced the amount of pain and utter loneliness I had to live through, just this past year. Your little fucked up world in your twisted head has never even _thought_ about the difficulty in breathing someone has when they're injected with so many potions to relax them, that they feel like they're about to drown. You've never even had a frosted _glimpse_ of how foggy someone's mind gets when they're injected with some Muggle drug that you've never even heard of and they feel so helpless as they are being _strapped_ down to a board and examined; tested." He closed his eyes and sucked in a necessary breath.

"You've never had the family you never had come to visit and watch them have the smiles on their faces wiped off as the doctor tells them that they will probably never release me and that I'm _not_ getting better," he said in a voice so full of pain that her suicidal thoughts were making a rapid comeback. He opened his eyes and looked at her hurt, shaking form in the corner of the cubical as he lay stretched across a rock-hard mattress, strapped to the ground. "You hear that, Hermione? Your mission is complete." His maniacal laughed returned. "I'm not getting better," he uttered between strangled chuckles, "I'm not getting better, I'm not getting better, I'm _not_ getting better..."

She couldn't take it anymore. It was as if he really _had_ gone mad. And she knew she was close to it. She had a slight feeling that if this kept up, she would drowned in her tears and sorrow—and more so, she'd allow herself to.

"Harry—no—listen to me, you'll..." she took a deep breath, trying to continue while Harry kept chanting his failure in sanity, "you'll get better I _know_ it. I'll—I'll help you...I'll talk to them, tell them that you're not crazy and...God, Harry, you'll get—"

Suddenly, all the chanting stopped and Harry's eyes shot to Hermione's. His smile—which hadn't meant much more than her tears—disappeared and his eyes widened to enormous proportions. And when he spoke, his voice was lower than Hermione had ever heard it been used in her life.

"You'll—help—me—get—better?" he spelled out, his voice clipped and chipped, jagged around the edges. Emerald eyes burned holes through her head and she knew that if he had the actual power, he wouldn't hesitate to use it. "I think it's my turn to ask God of something." His head sudden twisted towards the ceiling, eyes madly transfixed upon it as if that's where the Lord was actually sitting and he clenched his fists, straining against the leather again. "God, will you please restore my memory for a brief moment," he mock-pleaded, before turning his eyes back to her, "because with my loss of sanity, it seems it was severely impaired. Otherwise, I'd find it hard to believe that Hermione Granger would be willing to help me leave St. Mungo's for good...when _she's _the one that _put_ me there."

For once in her life, she wished that Harry didn't know her name. For once she wished that he'd call her foulest name he could've thought up, that he would've called her a fucking bitch, a piece of shit on bottom of his cheapest shoe—_anything_ but named her in the crime she'd had to live with since the end of Seventh Year. It had been the longest, most treacherous year of her life—even with Draco.

The water circulating down her cheeks couldn't even be defined as tears any longer due to the deep pain entrusted within it. Her face wet, eyes puffy, and lips quivering she shook her head. Not in denial, but in hope of a slight chance to explain something—anything...to help her ease Harry's pain. It's what she intended, but selfishly knew that it her own pain she wanted to ease—her own dirty guilt that wouldn't wash clean no matter how many times she'd tried.

"I didn't—I didn't—" Her voice was short and sporadic now, hiccups taking over half the time and not allowing her to get anything through. "I didn't—m—mean to do—do—what I—"

Harry's third laugh of the night reached her ears rapidly, but this time she recognized it to be soft and pitiful—as if he simply couldn't contain the pity he held for _her_. For poor _Hermione_.

"You didn't mean it?" he asked, not even looking at her anymore, but back at the fluorescent lights. "You didn't mean to become a Death-Eater in the beginning of Seventh Year? You didn't mean to get involved in the Dark Arts and not tell anyone until Draco Malfoy entered the picture? You didn't mean to spy for Voldemort and help him rise?" His eyes slowly—ever so slowly—crept towards Hermione's, whose sobbing had silenced and only his voice could be heard in the quiet hospital. "You didn't mean to tell Voldemort every vision I had about his plans, so that he wouldn't go through with them, successfully labeling me insane after a while?" Harry's voice was quiet and fuzzed, as if his lips were struggling to move. "'Potter boy finally cracks'...'The Boy Who Lived, or rather The Boy Who Lied?'...'Harry Potter: Once a weapon, now insane'," he listed off headlines monotonously. Then he paused.

"Or my favorite: 'If misery loves company, does insanity love Potter?'."

Hermione's eyes glistened and she could see that Harry's built up some unshed tears as well. She didn't know what to say to that; it wasn't like she hadn't replayed that whole week over in her head as many times as it took until she finally cracked and turned to two bottles of vodka as a comfort for her soul. And now—faced with the fucked up image of her once famous and brilliant, _happy_ and cheerful best friend strapped to a starched mattress while hearing her sins from her victims was too much. She couldn't handle it.

Slowly, she leaned against the cubicle wall and placed her hand over her heart in attempt to stop it from hurting like a thousand hot arrows had just pierced it.

But Harry didn't care. His eyes hadn't even moved with her. He just stared at the spot where she had been, now his view consisting of another patients' cubicle wall.

"But that's okay, Hermione," he said, his voice quiet and almost warm as if he was reassuring her that everything in the world would always be alright. He didn't blink. "You had good reason to do what you did." His eyes looked glazed over now, and the only sign of his body possessing life were shallow breaths and his consistent, nearly monotonous voice. "I remember when Ron and I got in a fight with you. It was..." his brow crumpled. "It was the middle of Seventh Year when we realized that your detentions were because you kept getting caught in the Restricted Section and that when you weren't in the library, you were fucking around with Malfoy."

She inhaled sharply, not ready for a recount of Seventh Year as well—probably the most emotionally taxing year of her life—but Harry didn't seem to notice, and if he did, she guessed that he wouldn't give a damn.

"We confronted you," he recalled, his voice almost pitying his former self and Ron for doing such a stupid thing, "and finally got you to admit everything—your Dark Magic fetish, your affair—no, your _love_ for Malfoy and your long-time attraction for them both. Ron and I got mad," he said evenly; simply. "We said that anyone who turns to dark magic and Malfoy for support and interest was sick and didn't deserve the respect and treatment you received. That you were honored for being Head Girl and your great N.E.W.T.s scores for nothing."

He shook his head, finally blinking and turning his eyes to a shivering, quivering of a mess that was Hermione, huddled by the cubicle wall trying not bawl and wake up the orderly. It was like he shattered her entire world and worlds to come by giving her a recount of what she'd done—or what they'd _all _done.

"But we were—I was a bastard," he continued, talking this time straight to her. "It was I that mostly said everything to you. Ron just wanted to kill Malfoy as slowly and painfully as he could." His eyes closed for a moment, as if paying one last moment of respect to the memory before uttering the most hurtful words Hermione had heard from him all night: "But, hey, at least I got what was coming to me, right?"

"No!" she exclaimed, and couldn't help but hiccup and choke on the sob that erupted from her throat. Her air supply seemed at risk all of a sudden and she couldn't make of what to do—was it inhale first then exhale? Or the other way around?

"No?" she heard Harry's voice exclaim suddenly. "No?" He was almost to hysterics and her eyes darted unconsciously to the sleeping orderly who was now stirring a bit in his desk.

Harry caught the movement and closed his eyes painfully, struggling against all of his restraints as if he was making a decision that his entire body protested against. Then—then everything was calm.

Hermione chanced a look at Harry and all that was staring back at her was a pair of dulled, green eyes which have seen and been through too much that they have never been through. A little boy chosen for the worst experience anyone could ask was still waiting for his heroic compensation. And thanks to her, she realized, it wouldn't ever come.

"Go," Harry's dull voice proclaimed. "I won't wake Clem. See?" He smiled a force grin that couldn't have looked more painfully disturbing than he'd made it. "I know everybody's names by heart. I've got _friends_." Then, his eyes hardened as he made a return back to reality and the last thing she ever heard him say before pushing off the cubicle wall and running out of the ward was, "You _are _in one of my pictures, Hermione. You were front and center in the crowd when I caught that Snitch."

And through her tears, she realized that he meant the pictures posted with all of his Hogwarts things. 

She didn't know how long it took her to get off the floor she collapsed on after running out of Harry's ward, but her cheeks were still wet by the time she got to her feet again. 

Closing her rain coat around her, she hugged herself in her arms and almost blindly ran through the building and into the room with the empty box of lemon drops which served as her Port Key. Before she touched the box and was pulled out of Harry's life, she couldn't help but wonder what would happen if she went in there, charmed all the restraints off Harry and pulled them upon herself.

What if she took on Harry's burden after all this? After her loyalty to Voldemort and all her trouble with spying and completing missions and falling in love with Draco? Could she make this right and fake insanity—if she even needed to—so that Harry would be let free and she'd be drugged time and again instead.

A single, last tear ran down her immensely pained, young face as she carefully touched the box of lemon drops and was pulled out of the hospital's cafeteria.

And the last thing she saw was a slightly larger version of the first thing she read when she walked in on her most heartbreaking night:

 _Don't litter. Charm your trash into the orange bins at the end of the hall. Keep St. Mungo's clean._

___

Okay, I KNOW that was super dark, but I told you it was in the 'Angst' category for a reason. Also, if there are any grammatical errors or missing words in a sentence or something: sorry! I hate when I do that but my computer sure as hell won't pick up those mistakes and when I type fast, my mind tends to go faster than my typing ability. Excuse me for that, will you? This is the revised version of the first type I posted—you're minus, like, ten mistakes now.

Cheery smile: Review!


	3. Glimpse 3: Contented Development

Glimpse 3: _Contented Development_

"Shut the curtains, will you?" she moaned, eyes straining against the salmon orange screen her eyelids provided her gaze.

She felt completely exhausted, spent, and she couldn't even remember why. All she knew was that if somebody didn't get the block that bloody light from falling upon her bed and face, there was going to be mass homicide after the initial shock and drowsiness of waking up.

"Parvarti, I'm _not_ kidding—" Hermione started again, getting more agitated with every passing second, before a clump of bunched white sheets unceremoniously falling on her face muffled her sentence.

"Shut up," she heard a voice very near her utter with almost as much venom as she held in her tone for the sunlight. She turned, groaning in pity for herself that she had such inconsiderate dorm mates, when her eyes snapped open as she felt a leg brush her own. Her dorm mates never slept so intimately near her and their voices were distinctly _not_ male.

"Wha—" she gasped, sharply sitting up and clutching the nearest sheet to her body instinctively. Her eyes adjusted to the morning-sun lit room filled with parchment, quills, and textbooks in a disarray at a far corner of the room, under which there was, presumably, a desk. She was only able to comprehend a few more scenes of organic nature, posted on the walls in all their subtle, dim-lit color, depicting the birds and trees in the night, before suddenly turning her head to her right where she presumed the leg might be attached to a body.

"Can you stop your bloody moving, it's barely ten yet…" the same surly voice grumbled, squinting his eyes in Hermione's direction after lifting his face from his pillow.

Hermione drew in a sharp, cold breath before scrambling off her side of the bed in pure, unadulterated disgust. Before she could realize what went wrong, she tumbled off the side and landed on the cool floor, pulling the sheets along with her to be almost completely useless in the breaking her fall department.

Hearing a raspy laugh from the body on the bed, she carefully stood up as steadily as she could and clutched the stolen sheet to her body more securely.

"Oh, my God," her lips offered a summary of what was going on in her mind. Eyes begging to be removed from the sight of a naked Draco spread upon his bed, resting on his stomach, yet unwilling to look anywhere else, she had to bite her lip to keep the chunks from rising in her throat as the previous night's memories flooded her mind.

Skin. Lips. Discarded clothes, body heat. _No_ alcohol.

Her knees began giving out as she remembered details, put together pictures and words—the whole horrid enchilada. Hermione had just fought with Ron, and then with Harry _about_ Ron. She had been wound up, set on releasing that energy, taking it out on something or someone, desperate to be in the company of someone other than the Agreeing Idiot Twins. Cue the Malfoy entering.

"No, that's not it," she heard Draco's voice from the bed as he sighed in defeat and realization that she wouldn't let him get any more sleep. "You didn't call me _God_ last night, per se…"

"Shut up, just…" she raised her hand at him, looking away as the chunks protested their way up her throat despite her best efforts to remain calm. "Oh, God."

Draco watched in amusement as Hermione vigorously started wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, intent on chafing it off, apparently. He smirked as he remembered that his lips hadn't lingered on her _mouth_ that long, anyway. But he could humor her.

"Where are my…" she muttered to herself, now on the task of finding her clothes, one undergarment at a time, all the while shielding the view of her nude body with sheets.

The contented smirk still firmly in place, the shameless blond leaned against the headboard of his bed and watched Hermione pace about nervously as thought it was The Morning After Show.

"Panties?" he finally asked, seeing that her search was completely pointless and taking up too much time. Her eyes snapped up to him. "Customarily, you ask the guy where those are if you simply _cannot_ find them elsewhere," he grinned like a Cheshire cat, instantly producing the blue cotton dangling off his index finger seemingly out of nowhere. "That's just what we go for."

"Give me _those_," Hermione fumed, stressing each syllable as she snatched her underwear off his lazy finger. "Where are the rest of my clothes?"

Draco linked his fingers together and stretched them above his head, expanding his sore muscles and contracting them. "That one's up to you, doll. It was all kind of a blur last night—clothes weren't exactly the primary concern."

"I thought I told you to _shut up_ about that," Hermione spat over her shoulder as he eyes resettled on the messy bedroom floor once again. "No need to relive the _biggest_ mistake of my life over and over again."

"Bollocks," Draco retorted, walking toward his dresser as naked as the day he was born without a second thought, while Hermione made a point to look in the exact opposite direction after she accidentally got a sneak peek. "I gave you the greatest shag of your life and you confirmed that many, _many_ times last night, sweetheart, so let's not start singing the Mistake Song this morning, okay?"

Fishing out her pants, Hermione awkwardly put them as she held a sheet to her.

"Last night," she grunted in effort, "should have _never_ happened. I was—" Grunt, "—not myself."

"And you want to hear the best part?" Draco asked over his shoulder, chuckling aloud as he pulled on a pair of trousers. "You weren't even pissed. There was no Firewhiskey, no alcohol of any kind. I thought it was going to be fun to hear your excuses last night, but you weren't much for talking—you know, on account of all the shagging, but now that we're good and bitter as the sun came up, let's hear it, cutie. Why'd you sleep with me—_sober_?"

"I _told_ you," she hissed, eyes raging with ire as she glared at his naked back, "I wasn't myself last night. I was _very_ upset and _very_ moronic. Now can we get back to the part where you shut up about it? Because you don't seem to be getting that."

"And _you _don't seem to be getting a very important part of _this_," he accentuated, skulking toward her with smooth feline grace and grabbing her shoulders before she had a chance to snap her bra into place.

Connecting their lips forcefully, he ran his tongue along the entrance to her mouth, pleased when she opened it for him without a second thought. She moaned into the kiss and arched her body toward his, almost out of habit, as he moved his lips against hers expertly, danced with her tongue as she danced with his.

"Ugh," she suddenly pulled away, pushing against his chest to disentangle from their intimate embrace. "Stop."

"You _enjoyed_ it just as much last night," Draco plowed on, despite the newly-restored horrified expression on Hermione's face; despite the kiss that just happened between them and her futile attempts to act repulsed; as though he was merely continuing his sentence from where he left off. "You seem to be missing a bit of _that_."

Throwing her jacket on over her nearly naked upper body, not bothering with so much as an undershirt, she zipped it closed and darted toward the door, intent on exiting out of this nightmare and back into her life.

But her legs made a detour of their own.

She stopped before the door knob, turned and moved back across the room toward Draco, grasping his broad shoulders and shoving him toward her as she closed her lips over his once more. Her lips were hurried but scorching; rapidly moving but confident.

Pulling back, her dilated eyes met his, lips parted, though relaxed. No repulsed expression. Yet.

Before he knew what happened, Hermione made a second dash toward the door. Once there, she exited this time, shutting it firmly behind her, and leaving him standing in the middle of his anarchic room, bare-chested and still looking at the spot where she had been kissing him just a few moments ago.

He inhaled and cleared his throat.

"That's what I thought."

* * *

"Pass me the stirrer." 

She continued writing, her text open, and her quill moving at a rapid pace. Her eyes were trained to the text on the book, recording it with perfect ease, but her mind wasn't comprehending a word of what she was copying.

"Hermione," Dean said more forcefully in her ear, jarring her from the continuous zone in her mind had began to vacation.

"Yeah?" she answered, guiltily. "Sorry, I was just finish the last paragraph, so…"

"You got into it," he nodded. "Can you pass me the stirrer? Right there, by your arm. Yeah, that's it. Thank you. One of us has to continuously stir the potion in this stage and we still need the Earl Grey tea leaves. Do you mind?"

Hermione glanced toward the cauldron, and then toward the supplies table. "Not at all."

Approaching it, she grabbed a shallow, metal dish from the stack at the end of the table dipped the ladle into the bowl full of tea leaves.

"I need that after you," a familiar voice behind her declared. Trying to keep her scoops steady, she briefly shut her eyes and reopened them.

"Fine."

A long silence passed between them as she carefully gathered the ingredients into the dish, extremely aware of Draco Malfoy and where he was standing behind her.

Opening her mouth to say she was done, she heard him inhale, as though he was getting ready to speak.

"I…" He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "I… wanted it… as much as you did."

Hermione turned her head to look over her shoulder, not quite meeting his eyes, but settling on his feet. From anyone else, she would have expected some grand apology, something big to convince her that it wasn't her fault and that he hadn't manipulated her into doing something she didn't want to. She would have expected reassurance that she was great, not that it was any reason to gloat for him, of course. She would have expected some great speech about being willing to commit if she wanted, so that she wouldn't feel like some kind of whore.

But Malfoy, she knew, would not offer that for her. He wouldn't go that far; wouldn't go the extra mile. Not unless it was something he felt extremely ashamed about—and even then she wasn't sure what the extra mile, for him, would entail.

The fact that he said what he said, though, made it seem more real for her. Honest. Not _good_, definitely. But the situation definitely developed layers all of a sudden.

Abandoning the ladle in the bowl, she turned and faced him, eyes meeting briefly, glances platonic.

"I know."

And then he began scooping the Earl Grey into his dish.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ I don't know why my recent updates are always so short. But I'm extremely happy that I can call this the third Glimpse of Stranded Pieces of their Strength because I feel like I've abandoned this story, not having updating in forever. 

Enjoy and see if anyone can pick up so _major_ Buffy/Spike 'Wrecked' undercurrents. I can't say I was I channeling _just_ them, but I'm not going to lie. There are just times when Hermione is just _the_ Buffy and Draco is Spike.

Beach.


End file.
